Illusional
by RichelleBrinkley
Summary: Shattered glass and shattered illusions. Or, how Nick Kontellis spends three months living amidst dreams, sheltered by denial.


**Title: **Illusional

**Author: **RichelleBrinkley

**Word Count: **3,055

**Rating:** M (Yay for mature themes! Also, like, one swear word.)

**AN: **This was inspired by a lovely Seblaine (_Glee_) story that I read, called _Behind the Door_ by Luna-is-Loony. So if you're a Glee fan, you might wanna check it out.

Italicalised text in the middle indicates a flashback. Nick and Richelle are around 17 in this story.

**Warnings: **Mention of character death, non-graphic.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Raven Hill Mysteries/Teen Power Inc., it belongs to Emily Rodda.

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_Even the strongest of illusions can be shattered by the truth._

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He sees her every day, everywhere he goes.

She is next to him when he wakes in the morning, blonde hair fanned across her pillow, eyes closed and body curled snugly into his side.

Richelle is never too warm laying next to him, even in the sweltering heat of the summer. Sometimes when he is halfway between dreams and waking consciousness, Nick thinks that he cannot feel her next to him at all, and his hands search the space beside him frantically before he finally calls her name and opens his eyes.

But she is always there every morning, her smile beautiful as the dawning sun.

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She is at the table when he eats breakfast, silently tracing patterns on the polished wooden surface as the two of them half-listen to Nick's parents, Demetrios and Toula, converse amicably. They talk about the weather or their work, what the neighbours are up to and the latest tax rebate.

They talk about anything but the incident that had happened a little over three months ago.

Nick always eats his cereal in silence, eyes staring into the distance and lost in his thoughts. Richelle always sits next to him, and he glances at her occasionally.

At breakfast-time, the corners of her lips are always raised slightly in a faint smile. There is a faraway look in her eyes, which shine a beautiful cobalt blue.

Richelle never eats breakfast anymore, or any other meal of the day. But Nick notices that her arms do not slim, even as the months pass by.

He doesn't know why, but his parents never look at Richelle, their eyes always sliding past where she sits at their kitchen table, never focusing on her place beside him.

Maybe, he thinks, maybe it is because she reminds them of that incident, the one that had happened three months ago.

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At school, Richelle is always nearby, never more than a desk or table away. She catches his eye and winks when they are in the middle of an insultingly-easy calculus test, and the hour-long lecture on intermolecular bonding.

Nick wonders why she is suddenly in all of his classes, from Chemistry to Ancient Greek. Three months ago she had been doing Dance and Drama.

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They sit together at lunch; just the two of them in a secluded corner of the schoolyard. Richelle listens as he talks, and she always smiles but never laughs.

She is always sad now, Nick's noticed.

But Richelle's smile never once falters over the three months, and she continues to smile at Nick every day with that same beautiful, hauntingly-sad look in her eyes.

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She is with him when he sits with the rest of the gang at the Glen every weekday after school.

Sunny, Elmo, Liz and Tom are always shooting him worried glances, and Nick sometimes catches Liz biting her lip as if to refrain herself from saying anything.

Teen Power Inc. hasn't really been the same since the incident.

Nick ignores Tom's feeble jokes and lets Richelle lean her back against him, entwining his fingers in her long blonde hair. He's noticed that he never smells her flowery perfume anymore when she's around – maybe she'd run out, or decided to stop wearing it.

It's a shame, he thinks. He misses that perfume.

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Richelle lounges lazily on his bed every night whilst he wracks his brain over modulars and triple-covalent bonds.

She usually talks to him as he studies, and her voice is soothing and sweet – a quiet melody to Nick's ears.

They really are a lot alike, Richelle and he, and sometimes this leads to arguments between the two of them because of their similarly headstrong personalities.

Nick can't help but tease Richelle sometimes, enjoying her reactions to his gentle quips and sarcastic remarks.

She in turn enjoys the challenge of distracting him from his studies, whether it be with her increasingly-ridiculous chatter or gentle lips trailing his jaw and neck.

She never says a word on these nights.

In fact, Richelle doesn't talk very much at all these days.

But sometimes, when he turns to look at her from his spot at his desk, she will give him her sad smile and mouth the words "I love you".

If he strains his ears hard enough, Nick swears that he can hear her voice whisper those three little syllables to him.

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People whisper about him at school now, little murmurs here and there. Wary eyes are always fixed upon his bowed head.

They talk about the incident a lot.

It has gotten to the point where even some of his teachers are expressing varying degrees of concern, and when Nick overhears a conversation between the principal and his mother on the telephone, the words "withdrawn", "moody" and "distracted" jump out at him like glaring beacons amidst his depression.

He isn't any of those things, he tells Richelle angrily, pacing the floor of his bedroom and running frustrated fingers through his now too-long hair.

Richelle as usual, doesn't say a word. She just watches and lets Nick pace all his frustration away before placing a hand on his shoulder and pulling him to bed.

She kisses him on the cheek, touch lighter than a butterfly's wings, but pulls away before Nick can turn his head and press their lips together. She's been doing that a lot lately.

He compensates by holding her close the rest of the night.

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Nick gets a call from Tom the following Tuesday, raising his eyebrows in confusion and annoyed disdain when his mother hands him the phone and tells him who it is.

"Nick?" Nick grunts unintelligibly at Tom's voice, not even bothering to answer.

"Hey, um, I know it's been a rough couple of months..." Tom's voice sounds strange, almost devoid of the usual snarky tone he saved specifically for conversing with Nick.

It makes Nick a little suspicious.

"What do you want, Moysten?" he sneers.

"...Uh, well, I just wanted to let you know that if you... you know, need somebody to talk to–" Nick cuts him off when he realises where the conversation is headed.

"I'm just fine," he snaps, glancing up to see Richelle looking at him quizzically from where she was perched on the edge of his desk.

Tom's voice is firm, "No, you're not."

"I am," Nick insists, his annoyance heightening by the second. Tom has never been his favourite person to talk to. "Look, Moysten, I've gotta go. Richelle and I were just in the middle of something."

The change in Tom's voice is almost instantaneous.

"What?" he splutters in confusion, "But Nick, how can you be–" Nick hangs up on him mid-sentence.

Turning back to Richelle, he sees her frowning slightly.

"Maybe you should talk to him, you know," she says eyeing him warily, as if afraid he would snap at her for even suggesting it. "It would be good for you to confide in someone. After all," she regards Nick with sad eyes, "You can't be sure that I'm going to be around forever."

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The last time he'd kissed Richelle – really kissed her – was on the day of the incident, three months ago.

They'd been sitting in the front seat of his car after a lunch date at the Black Cat, and Nick had pressed his lips to hers playfully, only pulling away and turning the keys in the ignition when he felt the tug of Richelle's teeth at his bottom lip and the kiss turn into something a little more heated.

Richelle had moaned in protest, leaning in to kiss him again and mumbling "let's stay here a little longer". Nick had laughed, pecking her on the cheek before backing the car out of the parking lot.

"You know I have to get back in time for my cousin's wedding. I'm late already by the looks of it." Richelle pouts but laughs good-naturedly as he drives the two of them home.

That had been three months ago.

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_There are sounds; a myriad of sounds, loud and violent and emphasised with one deafening crash that is so loud Nick swears it resonates in his head days after the incident._

_He wakes up in a hospital bed, tubes connected to his arms and the irregular beeping of the heart rate monitor the only sound to reach his ears._

_It is night-time, Nick deduces from the dark skies outside the window and the lack of lighting in his room._

_He moves to brush his hair out of his eyes, but winces when he feels a sharp pain in arm. Taking inventory of his body, Nick realises that his left arm is in a plaster, there is a large gash and swelling on his right temple, and his chest feels really, really sore. A couple of broken ribs, perhaps._

_The beeps monitoring his heart rate speed up._

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_Nick finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness the next few hours; or they could be days, weeks or months for all he knows._

_The next time he regains full consciousness, there are considerably more flowers and cards adjourning his bedside tables. And there is the anxious face of his mother watching him from a chair beside his bed._

_Nick's voice is rough – raspy from lack of use – but he manages to choke out, "What happened?"_

_It takes days for him to finally piece the story together, his mother unwilling to tell him anything until he was at least partially recovered from his battered state. But he agitates himself so much that, amidst multiple enforced dosages of drugs that made his eyes grow heavy and his brain sluggish, Nick's mother grudgingly tells him of the incident – the car crash – and his injuries. But she goes silent at any mention of Richelle, and Nick drives himself almost mad with worry and grief. Because Richelle – beautiful, vain, delicate-hearted Richelle just had to be okay._

_The sleep medication comes more frequently once he starts asking questions about her._

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_Nick finally sees her on his last night spent in hospital, hours before his pre-determined release. By this point, his mind is so agonised that he is sick, not physically but mentally with worry._

_Richelle is standing in the corner of his room and she approaches him slowly, a small smile gracing her face. Nick hadn't heard her come in._

_He doesn't believe it at first, his girlfriend standing before him, but when she reaches out and slides her hand into his, Nick squeezes his eyes shut tight, revelling when he opens them again and she is still by his side._

_There is a somewhat-sad smile on her face, but other than that, Richelle looks fine._

_Nick smiles when she murmurs to him, "I love you"._

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Something has changed since that incident, three months ago, but Nick can never quite pinpoint just what. All he knows is that he hasn't been the same since.

Sometimes, there are flashbacks; when a certain action or object triggers a disjointed flash of memory in Nick's mind, and he has brief recollections of sharp noises – the shrill screech of tyres – and the poignant, acrid smell of leaking petrol and burnt rubber.

But there is something else – something not quite right about his flashbacks. Somewhere along the way, Nick has repressed the memories of the incident, and he cannot for the life of him recall the moment of impact, although he remembers all too clearly the panicked seconds beforehand. Sifting through his recollections, Nick can sense that there is something he has misplaced, some little detail he saw but cannot quite bring to mind.

Somewhere in between the sickening crunch of metal and the excruciating pain of his head colliding with the windshield, Nick had seen something important, something paralysing and traumatising that he had yet to fully recall.

He doesn't look forward to the day he finally does.

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It all comes to a head one night, when the wind is rattling at the windows and rain pelting down with the force of bullets.

Tom calls again, and barely has time to say "Hey, just calling to see if you're alrig–" before Nick is sneering, "Fuck off, Moysten," and hanging up, slamming the cordless phone violently down on his desk.

Richelle looks up from her magazine, tucking a wisp of golden-blonde hair behind her ear.

"I think you should talk to him." Nick growls in annoyance, still glaring at the phone.

"Tom needs to mind his own business." Ignoring Richelle's look of consternation, he disappears into the bathroom down the hallway, wanting to escape the blue eyes fixed worryingly upon him.

Bending over the white ceramic of the sink, Nick twists at the tap, splashing his face with the cold water that runs over his fingers.

There is a mirror over the sink, a thick sheet of glass that stretches from wall-to-wall in the bathroom. Hunched over, palms pressed against the cool ceramic, Nick stares at his reflection and is surprised to see that he looks despondent, his eyes dull and almost lifeless. There is a bitter twist to his mouth, and dark purple shadows tattooed under his eyes. His skin is pallid, and has a pale, almost sickly quality to it.

Is this what these last three months have done to him?

"I'm sorry." Nick can hear Richelle's voice behind him, and eerily, it echoes around the ceramic-tiled bathroom, bouncing off the walls.

He can't see her though, still staring in the mirror's reflection. Stretching from one side of the wall to the other, Nick should be able to see everything in the room.

Sighing, he slowly shrugs his shoulders. "It's okay," he mutters to the empty bathroom.

"No, I'm sorry I left you all alone in this." Richelle voice sounds from somewhere beyond his left shoulder, but Nick's eyes are still fixated on the mirror, and the reflection of the bathroom behind him.

There is no one behind his left shoulder.

His head beginning to throb and Richelle's echoing voice, illusory in the cold air of the bathroom, has Nick standing frozen in a haze of confusion and building fear as her syllables continue to bounce off the walls.

"I'm sorry these last three months have been so rough on you. I didn't know you'd take my death as hard as you did, you know? ...Nick?" By this point, Nick has spun around and seen the blonde girl standing behind him, fingers reaching to encircle her wrists in his own. But before he can touch her, Richelle has jerked away violently, tears beginning to fall from her eyes. Nick watches as one escapes down her cheek and falls to the tiled floor; it doesn't leave any trace of moisture.

It feels as though he is on the brink of something huge, a great revelation or discovery that could alter what he knew to be his world currently. Nick teeters precariously on the edge between understanding and denial; understanding because he has finally managed to catch between his fingers the knowledge of what has been going on with him these past few months. Denial because he doesn't want to grasp onto said knowledge, instead wanting to let it slip from his fingers, let himself stay rooted in denial like he has done so often these last three months.

He struggles with his thoughts, but the more he thinks about it, the clearer the picture becomes, and Nick can only stand fixated in horror as the pieces slowly click together in his mind. They start to form a disgustingly-perfect puzzle of deceit, illusions and stupid, comforting friends who offer to listen over the phone.

He watches in horror because as the pieces fall into place, Richelle stares back at him with dark, tear-filled eyes, and he finally understands it, everything.

Richelle smiles, really smiles. Not the sad upturn of her lips that Nick has been growing used to these past three months, but a real smile.

Richelle's smile.

Her blonde hair loses its golden shine, her cheeks pale from their usual flushed pink.

Richelle is fading, but her arms open in welcome, or perhaps it was farewell, and Nick finds himself wound tightly in her embrace; chest-to-chest, fingers locked behind his neck, and lips – Richelle's lips – suddenly kissing him in what was the happiest, saddest and most empty kiss Nick had ever known.

Because he can't feel anything.

Not her fingers entwined in his hair, nor the warmth of her body against his.

There is just the cold, still air of the bathroom, and the tight choking feeling in his throat.

Nick closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, there is nothing but the silence, the eerie blue light and the cold tiles beneath his feet.

Richelle is gone.

Turning to face his reflection in the mirror once more, Nick stares at the empty bathroom reflected behind him.

Then he shatters a point in the glass with his fist, watching as the cracks spread from his clenched knuckles to the edges of the mirror.

He is careful not to hit the spot behind his left shoulder, however.

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Months later, he still has the scars from the glass shards cutting into his skin.

They seek to remind him constantly of that period, three months after the incident, when he'd been living his life in a blissful oblivion of illusions, sheltered from the harsh truths that came with reality.

Because she'd been nothing but illusional, the doctors tell him. A figment of the imagination conjured by a poisonous combination of grief and a vehement refusal to accept the truth.

Nick is told that Richelle had been killed on impact that fateful day, all those months ago. He can remember now with perfect clarity, the moments during and after.

Sometimes, Nick looks down at his fist, at the white scars tainting his skin, and wishes that he'd never pieced the story together. Most of all, he wishes that he'd never looked in that – now replaced – mirror.

Because if he hadn't, she'd still be here, wouldn't she? An illusion, an unhealthy trick of the mind, but here nonetheless.

The truth is Nick misses her, in all of her perfumed, blonde-haired glory.

_But even the strongest of illusions can be shattered by the truth._

Nick just wishes it hadn't shattered this one.

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**AN: ****Don't get onto me about how Nick was driving without an adult in the car when he was only 17. I know the driving laws, but I didn't want to make the characters any older.**

**Thank-you for reading, I know this was a bit random (but this has gotta be one of my favourite stories I've written, ever).**

**I usually don't mind too much if people don't review, but I'd really like some feedback on this story, if that isn't too much to ask. So please tell me what you think?**

**Much love,**

**RichelleBrinkley xx**


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